Tea, Mugs and Feelings
by fortytworedvines
Summary: One day, Sherlock startles John by actually making him tea and John takes the opportunity to stare at him. Unusual conversations occur. Basically fluff.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N. As always I own nothing. (And in the context of this story, the mugs are used for normal mug purposes..)_

**Tea, Mugs and Feelings**

Two mugs sat on the table, one striped, one plain. Water heated to the exact optimum temperature and poured into a teapot containing precisely three teaspoons of tea leaves (one for each cup, one for the pot). A splash of milk in each mug, it has to be the milk first. The tea is left to brew for five minutes.

John is watching Sherlock move round their kitchen, preparing the tea. It's a rare occasion that he is not making it himself and he relishes the opportunity to study Sherlock. He's been working with Sherlock for a year now and he's picking up his habits of close observation. He sits, quietly, and notes: the slight quirk of lips and crinkles round the eyes (Sherlock is happy); long fingers manipulating tea, pot and kettle carefully (this ritual is important to him); the gentle ease of his movements (he is relaxed).

Sherlock places the teapot in the centre of the table and takes the seat directly opposite John. John feels underdressed; he is wearing an old t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and his threadbare dressing gown. Sherlock is impeccably dressed in his tight purple shirt and crisp black trousers.

Sherlock notes John's concentration and his face lifts in a grin.

"You're staring, John."

John jumps slightly, this is the first time either of them have spoken for several minutes, then smiles back sheepishly. "Just… observing."

Sherlock steeples his fingers and stares right at John, light eyes piercing. "And what have you observed?"

"You're happy."

Sherlock leans back in his chair, tilts it and puts an arm back to brace himself on the worktop behind him.

"Yes."

They remain like this for several beats; eyes held, smiling, not breaking the moment.

There's a knock at the door.

"Morning boys!" calls Mrs Hudson. "I've got your papers here, I'll just leave them by the door."

Sherlock tilts his chair upright with a thud.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He calls. Stands up rather abruptly and leaves the room. Returning with their armful of Sunday newspapers he throws the 'Weekend' section at John with a lift of his eyebrow. John is well aware that Sherlock judges his preferred read, but then Sherlock always appropriates the actual news section and he'd rather not argue with him for it.

Dumping the rest of the pile in an untidy heap on the table, Sherlock picks up the teapot and carefully fills the two mugs.

"Striped or plan?" he enquires of John.

"Plain."

"Obviously." Murmurs Sherlock.

John lifts the proffered mug and takes a sip. "Wow," is startled out of him. "You really ought to make tea more often."

Sherlock takes a gulp of his own. "Far too much hassle," he chuckles, "Why do you think I wanted a housemate?"

Silence again for a moment. There is no rush, no case that is keeping them up for days on end. John appreciates the break. He takes another sip and looks up at Sherlock. Runs his eyes over that familiar face. There is something about Sherlock today, some indefinable difference.

"Why are you happy?" he asks abruptly.

Sherlock puts down his mug in surprise. Feelings are not discussed at 221B Baker Street. Even when Sarah ended her relationship with John six months ago, nothing was mentioned. Feelings get in the way, they are not necessary.

John thinks he's not going to answer, but Sherlock leans back; he's still relaxed.

"Why am I happy?" he pauses, seems almost puzzled. "I haven't analysed my feelings."

"Maybe you should." John isn't even really sure why he's pushing this.

Sherlock runs one elegant hand through his hair. His eyes crease slightly as they always do when he's thinking hard.

"I have solved a lot of interesting cases with a minimal death rate. Lestrade is listening to me most of the time. I have a feeling that there'll be a new case soon. This is a good cup of tea." He works through it slowly, with care, but John feels a sense of disappointment.

"That's it?"

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "Does there need to be more?"

"I thought, perhaps…" John shakes his head, but a look of enlightenment crosses Sherlock's face.  
>"Ah, our friendship?" he inflicts it as though it's a question, but continues straight on. "Is very important to me John." He stares across the table and John gulps at the intensity of the gaze. "Working with you is infinitely preferable to being on my own, and I find your companionship out of work enjoyable." Then he looks down and murmurs, "Is that enough to be going on with?"<p>

John smiles and says, "Yes" and so it is, for now.


	2. Chapter 2

A New Tradition

John stumbles blearily into the kitchen. Eyes: tired, head: fuzzy, hair: all over the place. He has snatched twenty minutes for a nap while Sherlock pores over photos of the latest murder victim. They have been on the case for three days now, Sherlock hasn't stopped yet and John is on the point of collapse.

He stops on the threshold and rubs his eyes, confused. Why is there a teapot?

"Morning John," Sherlock greets him as he pours milk into two mugs.

"Papers by the door!" calls Mrs Hudson's voice from the landing.

Sherlock brushes past John and John seats himself wearily at the table, then catches the Weekend section as Sherlock chucks it at him.

"How are you, John?" Sherlock asks as he pours out the tea.

"How… am I?" John stares at him, bemused.

"Yes, a simple question, don't you think?" Sherlock seats himself opposite John. As usual he looks totally fresh and composed. He gestures to John to pick a mug and John takes the plain one, raises it to his lips.

"I'm tired." He sips and hums in gentle pleasure, then sighs. "Why the tea? Is it a special occasion?"

"It's Sunday. I'm going to make tea on Sunday mornings now."

"Right, okay." Not worth puzzling over it really. He takes another gulp and feels the caffeine beginning to wake him up. "It's a nice idea, I like it."

"Good."


	3. Chapter 3

Violin

Sherlock and John have had a fight; a silly fight, but a fight nonetheless. John is sitting in the living room, staring distastefully at Sherlock's violin, the innocent cause of the argument.

"I told you," Sherlock is insisting, "That I played the violin."

"Sherlock!" John is trying his best to keep his temper. "I hadn't slept for FOUR DAYS. We finally get the chance to sleep and you played the violin at THREE IN THE MORNING!" he stops and takes a deep breath. Sherlock leaves the room abruptly.

John feels an ache in his chest. Fighting with Sherlock is so unusual. He doesn't know how Sherlock will react to this: will he ask him to leave? He bitterly regrets storming out of his room and throwing all the cushions in the living room at Sherlock while shouting incoherently. He notices, as he stares sleepily around the room, that the cushions are still scattered. With a groan he picks himself off the sofa and begins to replace them. There's movement in the doorway and he turns to see Sherlock, carrying a tray laden with teapot, mugs and milk. John is flabbergasted.

Sherlock places the tray on the coffee table, in silence pours out the tea, then hands the plain mug to John.

"I'm sorry." He says. John is so surprised that he nearly drops the mug.

Sherlock correctly interprets John's shocked expression. "I'm sorry that I woke you up last night. I know you really needed the sleep and I promise not to do it again."

There is a mildly awkward silence.

Then John takes a gulp of the tea and smiles. "This is lovely."

Their eyes lock and they know the fight is over.


	4. Chapter 4

A Touch of Insanity

They stumble into the hallway, giggling, clutching at each other. Sherlock has a bruise purpling on his left temple, his shirt has been ripped and there is blood on his trousers. John has a cut lip, sore ribs and has lost his jacket.

They slump against the wall, still laughing, a hands span away from each other.

"God, are we insane?" John grins up at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs and his lips twitch. "Nothing like a near death experience." He studies John closely and John's laughs subside under the scrutiny.

"You're happy." Sherlock notes.

"Christ, yes."

"Why?" Sherlock's voice sounds devoid of curiosity but John knows him better than that.

"The excitement, the danger, knowing that we captured a serious criminal and escaped to tell the tale." He answers honestly.

"That's all?" Sherlock is staring down at him.

John shivers. "Isn't that enough to be going on with?"

Sherlock nods his head. "Yes" and then bounds up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

John stares after him, puzzled. He makes his own way up, slowly, wincing as the adrenaline high wears off and the pain in his ribs grows. He pushes open the door to their flat and there is Sherlock pouring out tea. He offers the mugs to John who accepts the plain one with a fervent thank you.

They settle on the sofa. Sherlock stares at the tv and says "You ought to get somebody to look at your lip."


	5. Chapter 5

The Striped Mug

John is ill. He is running a fever, his lips are cracked and dry, he is alternatively drenched with sweat and freezing cold. He hasn't seen Sherlock all day. A woman, probably Mrs Hudson, has been looking after him; he recalls a motherly voice and somebody patting his forehead and giving him some sort of pills.

He stays in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. As dawn breaks behind his thin curtains, he begins to feel more like himself. He can sit up without feeling queasy and he realises that he is hungry. He swings himself gingerly out of bed, supporting himself on his chair. Feeling more secure, he moves slowly across the room. Opening the door he sees Sherlock asleep on the sofa. He has never seen him sleeping before and he thinks he looks very young, very innocent with his dark hair curling over his forehead and a peaceful expression on his face.

But he is hungry so he doesn't spend too long gazing at his friend. Moving into the kitchen, bracing himself to discover one of Sherlock's experiments, he is pleasantly surprised to find that it is clean. More than that, there is actual food in the fridge. Food that a not-quite-well person would enjoy. He mentally thanks Mrs Hudson as he chooses a yoghurt.

He thought that he had been quiet, but as he sits at the wooden table, Sherlock appears in the doorway. His hair is sticking up, his pyjamas are too short for him and his dressing gown is hanging oddly off one shoulder. He has never looked more beautiful to John.

Sherlock's eyes scan him quickly. "You're feeling better."

John smiles crookedly. "Definitely better than yesterday," his voice is croaky and unsteady; he puts it down to not having spoken for such a long time.

"It's Sunday." John nods. "Tea?"

"Yes please."

He watches Sherlock move around, gathering his paraphernalia. It is exactly four weeks since Sherlock first made him tea. He moves with characteristic care, his lips are quirked and eyes crinkled but there is a tension in his body too; he seems self conscious. Nobody speaks as Sherlock goes through his tea-making ritual and finally he places the two mugs, each with a splash of milk in, and the teapot, on the table.

Catching John's eye and holding his gaze, he asks him steadily, without any hint of a tremor in his voice, "Striped or plain?"

John stares back, seeing the set of his mouth and the almost undetectable flutter in his hands. He takes a deep breath and crosses a boundary. "Striped please."

Sherlock breathes out, a long sigh, and hands John his mug. His hands are no longer shaking.

They sip in silence. John watches Sherlock watching him. Sherlock drains his mug and sets it down firmly.

"I asked Mrs Hudson to go shopping."

"I noticed." John murmurs.

More silence.

Sherlock shifts, twitches his dressing gown so it's sitting more securely on his shoulders. He pours himself another mug of tea and grips it tightly. John watches his fingers as they curl round, stroke the handle.

Sherlock takes a gulp and meets John's eyes. He seems to be stealing himself.

"I've been analysing my feelings."

John is confused. "What?"

"Last month. You told me I ought to analyse my feelings. Well I have been." Sherlock's fingers are white around the mug and John thinks he must be burning himself. He reaches across the table and gently disentangles mug and fingers.

At the contact of their hands Sherlock twitches slightly.

John looks at him, his head is still woozy but he thinks, he hopes, he understands. "I asked why you were happy." Sherlock nods. "Why are you happy Sherlock?" he whispers.

Sherlock stands abruptly, moves round the table, kneels by John's chair. John shifts so he's facing him and now Sherlock is kneeling in between his legs and grasping his knees. He looks up at John with something akin to desperation written across his features. "It's not enough."

"What isn't?" John's voice comes out as a croak as he sees Sherlock bow his curly head.

"Our friendship." Sherlock clarifies. "John, I…" he presses his head against John's knees and grips his thighs with long, strong fingers. "John, I love you." He whispers to John's kneecaps.

John's world has stopped. There is sunlight and joy bursting in his heart and everything is right. He reaches out, gently touches the dark curls. They feel soft under his fingers.

"I love you too." He says simply.

Sherlock lifts his head and John has never seen such happiness in his face before. They study each others eyes for a second and read the truth of their feelings.

Sherlock leans forwards but John protests. "Sherlock, I'm ill."

"I really don't care."

So John leans forward and down, for the first and probably last time he is taller than Sherlock Holmes.

He caresses Sherlock's cheek, sees Sherlock's eyes flutter shut. His lips capture Sherlock's gently. His still untreated cut stings, but Sherlock angles the ghost of a kiss directly on it. Sherlock slides his hands further up John's thighs and he gasps, kisses Sherlock harder.

Mrs Hudson breaks the spell. "Paper, boys!" They pull apart and grin at each other ruefully. Sherlock gets to his feet with a sigh, looks down at John.

"I love you. Is that enough to be going on with?"

"Yes." John breathes. And it will be, for the rest of their lives.

When John washes up later, he puts back the mugs where they belong. The plain one, in his cupboard, and the striped one, in Sherlock's.


End file.
